Henry was the common name for an ass
in this period, thought Henry
above the stagnant pools the river made;
heart eaved
marks of a maiden's bite
riven from lone night
lying naked till the candle sputtered
and dawn spit him out
lewd with expensive creams & oils
shifted from the sacristy to his bruised thighs:
Pah! not a word of it shall find its way into his verse,
the long nights jagged with a presence;
the air of Venus recently departed
her face flush with haste;
and steal from bed to door
a pale sated moon
pried from grasping Henry
who wakes to find her gone
and marks the epoch
with a standing stone
at the edge of the river's reach.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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I like this muchly. Best if all I like how lewd chimes off bruised. Very smart x
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good luck
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Huh...
I suppose... poor Henry. -
Wow, such a powerful write, very well written.
Keep writing
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I like "hearts eaved" powerful description... ;-)
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This is a really good poem good luck in the contest. Marks of a maiden bite, expensive creams and oils these lines jumped out at me. Thank you for sharing and it was very much a pleasure to read
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myths of vulcan
born redfaced and cast into the sea
maker of golden traps
and venus split
between creativity and action
vulcan to mars
mars to vulcan
it is how cast stones build a stand
to be
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You make me believe in poetry when I really need to believe that it can still be written -- when I need to know it is not a selfish activity devoted to writing about oneself. How many times have I said that to you? How many more times will I --- I hope you don't tire of hearing it.
So this is to me is - - A portrait of a Man. Made perhaps made by the woman he might/might not love. No no -- she won't get into his poems. But what is it he feels when he wakes up and she is gone ?
Layered -- timeless. Villon- I can't wait to read the biography now. He's always been a bit fascinating to me thanks to Mr. Pound. I don't think I've read better aubade lines than these:
pried from grasping Henry
who wakes to find her gone
and marks the epoch
with a standing stone
at the edge of the river's reach
a gorgeous echo of goneness rings through this poem.
I love it.
Men are fascinating creatures.
Henry is mosaic isn't he?
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